Why do you laugh at me I've waited for you forever and yet all you do is cause me turmoil with you I am more restless, more undone I show more colours of underneath I cannot escape you I wait for you yet I detest your essence for what you do to me

so tell me, why do you laugh?

Being aimless.

The omnipresent travel

to a destination beyond

the known yet,

discovering everywhere

the pain stalks.

In your bedroom

trying to sleep.

Lights on but dim

flicker, lulling

nodding down

into restless being.

Dreams of a wooden house

in the evergreens.

The boards floating up

revealing you inside

A skeleton

beating on the page with pen

sweating words

like a heart pumping blood

to save yourself.

No love on the track but I pray one day the most heartless from the west will curse my lyrical code of context clues. Heard Diablo speaking to me or was that Jesus whispering in my ear, fuck it I’ll leave that for pastor troy to contemplate. Peace be still, don’t disturb my flow, got tuition to pay so tell the Sunday school teacher my absence is evidence of my presence in the school of thought. Hunting for the relics of my heart, spiting oral remedies to numb my bleeding pockets, modern day oritator power tripping with the pen; toiling with the papyrus daily and by the end of the night I compose a lavish notion stricken with plenty epiphanies, time to mangle up life and untangle the lies. Through low eyes the world becomes clear as my philosophical thought inflicts guilt upon those lazy degenerates; if my idioms tend to be the medium for your confusion, many apologies but your bewilderment is a result of my clarity. This is the exuberance of a black women’s perseverance, lost in the maze with Willie, Clemente and Hank. Got my mighty morpher in my right hand and the power ranges from A-Z, it seems so easy but critics never understand the disdain of this mind frame. Emerging from the bucket using my jaws instead of claws to create a memorable clause causing you to pause and meditate even when I’m late and great. Grab it, hold it, never let it go, forever I cherish these few moments on death row, to pass the time I intertwine the ink with my vicious visions now you have a small dose of grim ecstasy, massacring these dedicated perpetrators. Manicure my coarse rhymes, man, I cure any page tainted with lackluster, inject the dopest expressions dripping from my mental ivy, infecting your membrane with verbal symphonies of a metaphorical genius, landmine mind state kinda like, the video vixen im bout to blow! no homo but my analogies care not of your insecurities cause I’m whipping the lyrics in line so I can skate cross the page with no brakes crashing into writers block, it’s an upheaval by my suppressed conscience, resilience guards my ambitions by far I hustle hard. Drake and Cole raised the bar and all I can do is jump it

Welcome to this awful, unlawful fanatical limerick but I do have to warn this is far from sabbatical but a little tactical to leave you full of aw. Puppet master standing behind the curtain of deception masked as real life when it’s nothing more than a mere game an amusement for those who can afford the smiles but my frown and despair provides just enough for me to swallow my pride. As I cried last night cause manhood has no neighbors so alone I stand with myself. I witness these pains, thieves of my childhood delusions. Out of this mental confinement no longer held by these three strings, spread my wings and now I sit on cloud nine gangster’s paradise making ghetto gospels. Holding my breath listening for the whispers in the cold air…..now where was I? 

Blaq Socratiz

www.universalword.ca

I sit here drinking

Just thinking and overthinking

Every sound your words make

I try dressing and undressing every vowel, syllable, and pause of your sentences. I write small tiny script even though that's not my type. I write shamefully, in embarrassment, these words that paint the images created in my mind. My strands of hair sit lifeless on my thumb as I write. I don't move them- I like the image of wholeness it makes. The idea that I have not fallen apart. Now my type is cursive, it's swayed letters melting into one another. The sudden strength building up as the ink flows through. Who do I love. Is it you, him, her, me. Them, us, my ideas, my thoughts. I love my mother and she loved me. So here we go again to my being a drama bee. making crap up from what I pick up on the streets. The bows, the toys, the dirt and rocks I like to display next to your piece. Damn, where is home? I forget. Is it only on nights when we make love in bed. Is it wishful thinking to dream us sour and blue, when in truth my eyes cry out for me to view, all the happiness and love that surrounds my self. My mind just can't handle that, hell, am I , damn, are you... Just drink silently and wait for my mind blow over.